Читать книгу One Winter's Night - Lori Borrill - Страница 10

KIT GRINNED AS HE shook Monica’s hand, disappointed to see shock in those beautiful green eyes instead of the delighted surprise he’d hoped for, but he wasn’t deterred. Good fortune was following him tonight, and he was pretty sure that by the end of the evening, he’d turn that panicked expression into the sultry look he preferred.

“Ms. Newell, it’s a pleasure,” he offered brightly.

“Mr. Baldwin,” she replied, nervously darting her eyes between the two men.

“Kit’s been a long-time client of ours,” John said.

“A client,” she chirped, her grip tightening at the word client. She held her mouth in a tight-lipped smile that didn’t do much to hide the fright in her eyes, but only Kit seemed to notice. Without so much as a curious glance, John remained oblivious as he went on with the introductions.

“Kit owns Shelley Ranch.”

Her eyelids fluttered. “I’m familiar with that account.”

“It was named after my mother,” Kit explained.

Some of the color was returning to her cheeks but it wasn’t a friendly shade. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t explained his connection to Stryker & Associates when he’d met her in the lounge Monday night. By the time they’d gotten to the subject of their careers, he’d already been half-crazy about her, bound and determined to spend some quality time with the sharp and sexy brunette. So when she’d mentioned the company she worked for and he’d clued in to the coincidence, he decided against revealing any pesky detail that might have stuck a pitchfork in his plans.

Judging by the look on her face, it probably hadn’t been a good move.

“Kit called to say he was in town,” John went on, “so I invited him to come join the party.”

She pulled her hand away and fisted it at her side. “How lucky for us.”

The corporate smile pasted on her face had grown so taut Kit feared her lips might split apart. She was holding up a decent front, but he knew as soon as he got her alone, he’d be facing some sharp words. And that was okay by him. He had a few questions of his own, starting with why she’d pulled a disappearing act on him Monday night.

It certainly wasn’t because she’d been having a dull time. Kit didn’t claim to be a psychic between the sheets, but he knew a satisfied woman when he saw her. Ms. Newell hadn’t ducked out for lack of pleasure, so why she’d fled at all remained left to be explained.

As if luck kept answering his call tonight, a young man stepped up to John’s side and muttered something about a call, prompting John to turn to Monica. “I need to handle this. Do you think you could show Kit to the bar and see that he gets a drink?” He gestured to the buffet. “There’s food if you’re hungry.”

Kit grinned. “Don’t worry about me. I’m easily entertained.”

As soon as John stepped away Monica’s chiseled smile vanished.

“A client?” she choked out under her breath. “You said you were a ranch hand.”

“I said I worked on a ranch. You saw the scuffed boots and jeans and assumed that part yourself.”

“You own the ranch.”

He slipped her a friendly wink. “I hope that doesn’t ruin the fantasy.”

Her cheeks reddened and he almost thought she’d slap him, but he was saved by a couple who’d unwittingly moved within earshot, forcing her to step aside.

“You should have told me,” she snapped after they’d taken a few steps away. “You knew I worked here yet you didn’t say a thing.”

“Would you have still spent the night with me?”

“Absolutely not!”

He shrugged. “Then I’m glad I kept my mouth shut.”

Another group wandered into their space and in a huff, Monica gestured toward the bar. “I’ll get you that drink, then you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

He followed her across the room, making use of the opportunity to appreciate that fine figure of hers. It was especially sweet from behind. The woman was tall and slim, a bit thinner than he preferred, but he suspected that came from too much work and too little fun—something he intended to rectify if he got what he came for tonight. Even so, she had it all right where he liked it. Put that together with razor-sharp smarts and fiery Irish blood and Monica Newell was exactly the type of woman he’d been waiting for.

He only needed to get her interested. Not a small task considering she was mad as hell, but Kit always had loved a challenge.

He ordered a scotch and she settled for wine, then they stepped to the windows, away from the crowd but not so far as to appear too intimate. Before she could scold him some more, he casually leaned close and asked, “What are you wearing under those sexy white slacks?”

Her eyes popped wide as saucers.

“Tell me it’s not the white lacy thing you were wearing Monday night.”

A wisp of recognition crossed her features, coloring those wide eyes and hinting at raw desire, but she quickly tamped it down. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a repeat performance.”

“And you couldn’t have simply called? You obviously knew how to find me.”

“That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun.”

Those angry eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you enjoy watching me sweat.”

He flashed his sexiest smile. “No, but I enjoy making you sweaty.”

She opened her mouth then closed it, then opened it again but still didn’t say a word. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a distant glimmer of amusement strike the corner of her mouth but it was forced out by her stubborn determination.

“I want to see you again,” he said, opting to get straight to the point of this visit.

He didn’t know why Monica had taken off Monday night, but after the night they’d shared, he wasn’t going to let her go without an argument. Even before they’d hit the hotel room, they’d been having a good time. In a matter of a couple short hours, he’d grown intrigued by her smarts and sharp wit, the quirky contrast between her ingrained manners and confident authority. She was a rare type who could strike a strong man down without a flinch yet still probably know the proper way to address the Queen of England. A cobra disguised as a doe, curious, complicated, and about the only woman he’d ever met who’d interested him enough to go running after.

And now that he’d found her, he wouldn’t be quick to walk away.

“That’s impossible,” she said.

He took a sip of his drink and spoke over the glass. “On the contrary, I’ve got a hotel room downtown. Unless you’d be more comfortable at your place—though that would make it hard for you to pull another great escape again.”

“There will be no repeat,” she insisted under her breath.

“Why not? According to Stryker you’re not married.”

She gasped. “You asked Mr. Stryker if I was married?”

“I needed to know if I had a fighting chance. You still owe me an explanation for cutting out on me, by the way. I get that you’re upset by me showing up like this tonight, but if you’d left me something more than ‘thanks for the good time,’ I might have just picked up the phone and called.”

Finally, those flames in her eyes gave way to something a little more promising. It looked a lot like guilt, something he wasn’t above exploiting if it got him the girl.

“You’re right,” she said. “I owe you an apology for that.”

“I’ve got a number of ways you can repay me.”

“Stop!” Her mouth quirked as though she were forcing back a grin, and it was then he knew he had her. He’d expected he might receive a brisk chill showing up the way he had tonight. He’d feared he would hit solid ice along with the harsh reality that the special spark that had ignited between them had been entirely one-sided. But despite her attempt at affront, it was obvious the woman was pleased to see him, leaving him relieved and more determined than ever to see where this might go.

He bent in and whispered close to her ear. “That’s not what you were saying Monday night.”

MONICA TRIED TO STAND firm, holding on to her anger for support, but darn if Kit wasn’t getting to her using that sexy drawl and sparkling smile to chip away at her resolve. He’d slipped under her usual defenses with ease back at the airport, charming her out of her clothes before she could ask “your room or mine?” And now, with a hundred reasons to keep him at arm’s length, she was once again biting back flutters and wondering if maybe she could indulge just one more time.

“I can’t believe you discussed my personal life with my employer,” she said, working hard to remind herself why this man was a walking hazard.

How could she ever maintain Mr. Stryker’s respect if her love life became public knowledge—with a client, no less!

Stryker & Associates was a reputable and desirable firm to work for, but it was entirely old-school. Monica was the first woman to be appointed to the board of directors and still the only one holding a chair. She’d shattered a glass ceiling most considered impenetrable, and she’d done it by being better than the rest and remaining staunchly professional on the job. The female junior executives here looked up to her as inspiration for what they could achieve. She’d accomplished what others hadn’t, but along with that accomplishment went a responsibility she couldn’t take lightly.

And cavorting with a long-time client topped the list of dim-witted behavior.

“I only casually mentioned to John that I thought you were pretty and asked if you were spoken for,” Kit explained. “How wonderful you feel naked is my business alone.”

She felt an ulcer forming in her stomach. The man was so furiously composed, so absent of propriety, that it made her want to spit nails. Yet quite pathetically, it was that same dry sense of humor and boyish disregard for protocol that made him so ridiculously attractive.

As much as she hated to admit it, she’d liked that he was upbeat, reckless and fun—pretty much everything she wasn’t. And just like she had Monday night in the lounge, she was having trouble keeping her distance. Even now, with her fingers itching to strangle him senseless, she was alternately pleased to see him. Like some helpless romantic, she was actually thrilled that he’d come chasing after her, even though she hadn’t liked his methods.

“Relax,” he assured her. “John has no idea we’ve even met. In fact, if you’d like I’ll tell him I made a pass and you struck me down like lightning.” He rubbed his chin. “Though that means we can’t invite him to the wedding.”

She let out an exasperated breath, not just from his inability to take this seriously but by the fact that his silly jokes actually charmed her. He was definitely not the type of man she ever thought she’d fall for—not that she was admitting such a notion now. Only that if she was to get serious about someone, she’d always assumed it would be with someone more…serious.

Despite it all, she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering along the lines of that strong stubbled jaw, over those talented lips, down that broad, muscled chest and beyond, gathering memories of their blissful night every step of the way. He’d been good. Really good. And now he was back, all sexy and confident and asking to do it again. How did she stand a chance against that?

“Dance with me,” he muttered through a gaze just as steamy as her thoughts.

Only then did she hear the music from the stage—“Blue Christmas,” a slow smoky version meant for snuggling close. She opened her mouth and tried to say no but her lips wouldn’t form the words. Her body was too busy screaming yes. And in the wake of her indecision, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

He held her gently at her waist, heat resonating from his palms and tingling down to her toes. He kept at a respectable distance, giving the appearance of a polite dance among associates to the common bystander. But there was nothing polite about the hunger in his gaze or the way it made her feel. That was Grade A carnal and primal, and as they rocked to the music, a giddy dizziness came over her.

“Spend the night with me,” he uttered quietly. “Come with me tonight and let me wake up with you in the morning.”

Immediately, desire waged war with her senses. This was wrong in so many ways. The man was a client, and though there was no corporate policy against dating clients, it broke every personal rule she had.

“I’ve got a number of things we didn’t get to Monday night.” Then he bent close and whispered a sampling, spreading heat through her veins.

Stop it, Monica, she insisted through the fog. You’ve got a thousand reasons why going home with Kit Baldwin would be a horrible idea. Though off the top of her head, she couldn’t recall a single one. His woodsy aftershave kept flooding her senses with the memory of his body in hers, how deliciously wonderful he’d felt and how much she’d ached to have him again. She’d been so easily seduced by his rugged good looks and fun, casual style. It was as if he’d found a switch he could turn on with a flick of his finger. She’d thought she was a stronger woman, presumed she’d end up the one in control of her relationships, yet here she was a second time, entranced by his simple touch and helpless against his wicked offerings.

From the corner of her eye she spotted John Stryker stepping back into the room, and his attention on her and Kit should have been a sign that she needed to gather her senses and walk away. But with Kit’s gorgeous brown eyes pointed in her direction—and promising undiluted pleasure—her good intentions crumbled under the weight of lust and greed.

“Okay,” she heard herself utter. “Let’s get out of here.”